


All For One

by coolbreeze1



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreeze1/pseuds/coolbreeze1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the invisible battles beneath the surface that are the hardest to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All For One

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, everybetty! Thanks also to Titan5 for answering some of my early questions in the writing of this story. This is the second of three stories written for the Help_Pakistan auction, won by dernhelm62.

The prison was a narrow stone structure built onto the back side of the otherwise ornate palace, a recent addition to what appeared to be a much older building. Teyla grabbed the binoculars Rodney was holding out to her and peered through the lens, bringing the distant scene into focus. Each cell door opened up into the side yard, and men in dark brown and white uniforms and feathered hats wandered in and out of the courtyard, the silver brightness of their rapiers glinting in the sunlight as they moved. None appeared to be guarding the prison block specifically, but all were within easy running distance should anyone attempt to break out of—or into—any of the jail cells.

“How many?” Ronon hissed.

“I count eight soldiers,” she answered, sweeping her gaze across the open fields around the palace.

“There will be many more of Lord Bareff’s men just inside the building. It is near the time for midday meal, so they will all gather there soon,” the man next to Ronon explained in a hushed whisper.

Teyla glanced over at him, seeing the frown pulling across his face. He still wore the vendor apron from earlier, when the troubles had started, and the eclectic smells of the market clung to his clothing. She turned back to the palace at the sound of a distant clanging bell and saw all but three of the men head toward it.

“Now is the time to reach your friend,” the vendor whispered. “Our sources say he is being held in the last cell at the end. The lord is an arrogant man. Neither he nor his soldiers expect any resistance from those they terrorize.”

“We’ll follow the tree line until we hit the river. That should give us the most cover.” Ronon glanced at her, then Rodney. “We’ll get him back.”

Behind her, she heard a murmur of agreement from the villagers who had gravitated around them, all members of a resistance group operating in secret in the village nearest the gate. Teyla pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath and gearing herself for the rescue attempt.

The day had started normally enough: breakfast with her teammates, a mission debrief with Richard Woolsey, a brief moment with Carson as he returned from his most recent offworld clinic operation, and then a trip to a new world reputed to be looking for trading partners. The central square of the village held a bustling marketplace, but the normalcy of the day had ended only minutes after they’d arrived. If they had entered the market from the other end, they might have missed the group of soldiers harassing the fruit vendor. Instead, they had walked right into the middle of a boiling pot of emotions.

Ronon jumped up and took off through the trees, forcing everyone else to scramble after him. Teyla felt her emotions settle as she fell into the rhythm of running, stride after stride, her feet soundless against flat, dirt-packed ground. She still wasn’t quite sure what had happened in the market square. Somehow, John had offended the soldiers and been challenged to a duel by their leader, which he might have refused had the rest of the soldiers not suddenly produced muskets and threatened to shoot them all. John had fought impressively, surprising Teyla with his swordsmanship and appeared to be holding his own.

And that was where the sequence of events became unclear. One minute, John and the soldier had been fighting; the next minute, shots had sounded across the market as the square was swarmed by more soldiers, then by villagers, an all-out brawl erupting between the men in the brown uniforms and everyone else. By the time it was over, villagers and soldiers lay dying or dead in the streets, and John—with a handful of others from the resistance group—were missing.

They reached the river a few minutes later, and Ronon’s fist flew into the air, causing all of them to grind soundlessly to a halt. The villagers who’d joined them in the rescue attempt were breathing hard, but they followed Ronon’s lead without question. The vendor—an apparent high-ranking member of the resistance—pushed his way to the front, just as two of the three remaining soldiers in the courtyard made their way toward the palace building, disappearing through its wide front doors.

“One guy left,” Ronon whispered. He pulled his blaster out, flipping it around in his palm. “I’ll take him out, then we move in and free everyone.”

“We must not make a sound,” the vendor answered, eyeing the blaster.

Ronon’s glare was answer enough, and the vendor nodded, backing away from him. Before Teyla could add anything to the plan, Ronon was off again, running out of the trees and leveling his gun at the lone soldier ambling up and down the row of prison cells. Teyla ran directly for the last cell, knowing that was where John had been taken. He had not been a prisoner for long—a few hours at the most—but the most cruel men didn’t need much time to inflict damage on prisoners.

She heard the hiss of Ronon’s weapon discharging behind her, then the thud of a body dropping to the ground. She tensed, waiting for cries of alarm, but none came. Rodney was close behind her, running hard to keep up and also intent on going directly to John’s cell. The other villagers fanned out behind her.

The prison cell doors all faced the side courtyard, and she searched the window of the last one, looking for any sign of John. It wasn’t until she was almost right on top of it that she was able to make out the form slouched on the floor and leaning against the back wall.

“John!” she whispered.

The figure jumped, his head snapping toward her. “Teyla?”

“Yes! We will have you out of here in a moment.”

“Thank God,” John breathed. “That was fast.”

“Are you injured?”

“Roughed up a little, but nothing a few Advil won’t take care of.”

The lock on the door was crude but effective, and she pulled at it a few seconds before banging her fist against the side in frustration. Another hiss of Ronon’s blaster jerked her attention toward him, and she saw him running along the row of cells, shooting out the locks.

“Stand back,” she ordered, and she saw John’s silhouette scramble away from the window.

Seconds later, Ronon reached their door and shot the lock off, sending it flying ten feet away. It landed in a burning, sizzling heap in the grass, wisps of white smoke curling into the air. John flung the door open and darted out into the open. He’d been disarmed—even his tac vest had been removed—and Teyla pushed her handgun quickly into his open palm.

“My report says these people are not amenable to trade at this time. Let’s get the hell out of here while we can,” he quipped. Without waiting for a response, he began jogging back toward the tree line. Ronon followed him, joined a few seconds later by the resistance group who’d managed to free their fellow fighters. Teyla felt a weight lift from her back and shoulders as she pivoted and began to run. John looked dirty and a little bruised, but he ran quickly and with no obvious sign of injury.

The gate was in sight in front of them when chaos erupted around them for the second time that day. She had heard no alarm at the palace, but they had obviously become aware of the prison break. Soldiers swarmed the team and the resistance members from the side, breaking through the trees with swords and muskets raised.

Teyla raised her P90, searching for a target, but the villagers and the soldiers were hard to distinguished in the fight. She’d been on the far side of the group, and the momentum of the battle had carried the fighting away from her. She scanned the crowd, searching for her teammates. Ronon was easy to find, his dreadlocks spinning around his head as he fought. His blaster fired continuously, dropping soldier after soldier. Rodney was a few feet from her, kneeling on the ground and holding his handgun up, ready to shoot at anything that came at them.

John was lost in the crowd for a second, and she felt her heart twist in her chest. They would not let him be captured again a second time. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she saw him backpedaling away from the fight. He glanced over at her and waved them over, then shouted something through the trees toward Ronon. The taller man reacted immediately and began making his way over.

 _Escape,_ Teyla realized. They could use the distraction of the fight to slip away to the gate. She grabbed Rodney’s arm and began dragging him through the trees, away from the fight and closer to John and Ronon’s position.

It was as they were rounding a large tree stump that she saw John spin around and raise his gun. A soldier stood ten feet away, pointing his long musket at John. Before she could level her weapon at the man, the musket popped, and flames leapt out of the end.

Time slowed down, stretching the moment to an agonizing length. She saw John jerk backward, hitting a tree branch at his feet and falling onto his back, boneless. The man who’d fired at him seized up in a glow of red. He dropped to his knees as his eyes rolled into his head, then was roughly shoved to the side as Ronon moved past him.

The clash of the battle faded. Teyla could hear nothing but her own breathing, the sound reverberating in her ears. She stumbled forward, all grace and agility gone from her movements. Her legs were shaking, and the sound of her own breathing was growing louder, pressing in on her from all sides.

John had not moved. She dropped to the ground next to him and grabbed his hand, then almost cried when she felt him return her grip. Blood was already covering his stomach and chest, glistening against the dark t-shirt. She felt his grip on her fingers weaken, and then sound snapped back into place.

“Teyla!” a voice screamed near her, and then a hand grabbed her shoulder and shook her.

“What?” she whispered. She blinked, looking around. The battle was still raging nearby, and the momentum was shifting, bringing the fighters closer to them.

Ronon was kneeling on John’s other side, slapping bandages against the bloody wound. “We have to get out here now. McKay—”

Rodney was suddenly there, digging his arms under John’s shoulders. “Got it,” he said, lifting the now limp man up just enough for Ronon to secure the bandage. John’s head lolled, his face a frightening shade of gray.

“I can walk,” John whispered, although his hand had grown lax in Teyla’s.

She shook her head, but Ronon nodded and shifted his weight to grab John and heft him to his feet. She jumped up with them, and grabbed him when he began to sink back toward the ground. Slipping under one arm, she grabbed his belt and lifted, taking on as much of his weight as she could carry.

Ronon did the same, almost lifting John completely off the ground. Musket fire exploded behind them, and one of the bullets bit into the tree next to her, showering her with scraps of bark. Without a word, she and Ronon surged forward, dragging John’s dead weight between them and following Rodney’s running lead toward the gate.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Carson Beckett had been in Richard Woolsey’s office, discussing his latest progress on treating the Michael’s plague when the gate activated and Rodney’s voice screamed out across the control room.

“ _Medical emergency. We need a medical team in the gate room!_ ”

Carson reacted instantly, darting from Woolsey’s office, past the control room, and down the stairs to the main floor. Behind him, he heard calls being made to the infirmary and clearance given to the team to come through. A charge of electricity seemed to fill the room as he ran, causing the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand on end.

Rodney came through first, blood on his shirt and his face white. He ran three steps then immediately spun back toward the open gate.

“Rodney!” Carson called out.

The scientist didn’t move. He continued to stare at the gate, his hands balled into fists that he banged against his legs in nervous agitation.

Carson opened his mouth to yell again when two more figures popped out of the wormhole and into the gate room. He spotted Ronon first—the man would stand out anywhere. Teyla staggered next to him, but she was suddenly blocked from view as Rodney rushed forward.

“Where’s the damn medical team?” he screeched.

Ronon and Teyla both staggered then dropped, and only then did Carson notice that the fourth member of their team was hanging between them.

“Move,” he barked, pushing his way forward. He grabbed John by the front of his shirt, hefting up his weight and pulling him clear of the open gate. Teyla’s grasp of their team leader slipped, and she cried out.

“I’ve got him,” Carson said. The front of Teyla’s shirt was also covered in blood, sending Carson’s heart into his throat.

John was a dead weight in his arms. Ronon kneeled down as the gate shut down behind them, and Carson shifted his grip to support John’s head from banging into the floor as they lowered him.

“What happened?” he asked. John was beyond pale, his skin gray and haggard. His shirt was also covered in blood, and Carson moved immediately to the thick wad of bandages strapped to his upper stomach.

“Fight,” Ronon answered, breathing hard. His arms were red and glistening. “He was shot. No exit.”

“Are any of you hurt?”

“No, just Sheppard.”

Carson’s chest constricted. “All of that is Colonel Sheppard’s blood?” he asked, waving his hand at Ronon’s arms then Rodney and Teyla’s shirts.

Ronon nodded, and Carson grit his teeth. He bent forward, digging his fingers into John’s neck in search of a pulse and pressing his ear against the unconscious man’s mouth. Despite the gray pallor, he was still breathing. The rapid, shallow exhales were just barely discernable against Carson’s ear, and the pulse beneath his fingertips was weak and too fast. Shock—no question of that. The colonel had clearly lost a great deal of blood. He fingered the bandage against John’s stomach and grimaced at the blood still leaking from the ragged wound.

“We tried to stop the bleeding, but…” Teyla started. Her voice caught in her throat and Carson heard her suck in a ragged breath. She slid forward, grabbing John’s hand and latching onto it with both of hers.

“You did the right thing getting him back here,” he said. He pressed the palm of his hand against the blood-soaked bandages and leaned down hard.

John didn’t react at all, shooting off all kinds of alarms bells in Carson’s head. A burst of noise at the far end of the room signaled the arrival of the medical team, and Carson waved them over. They swarmed around him, forcing Teyla and the others back, but a hand on his shoulder kept him in place, and he pressed harder against the wound on John’s stomach, warm, tacky blood oozing between his fingers.

Minutes later, they were rushing through the hallways of Atlantis toward the infirmary. John was strapped to the gurney, his face barely visible beneath the oxygen mask. Shouts to clear the hallway as they ran and a bombardment of questions from both the medical team and John’s teammates faded around Carson as his entire world became focused on the man in front of him. He was on the gurney with him, straddling him and pressing as hard as he dared against the bandage beneath his hands. He could not see John’s chest moving, but the brief puffs of condensation on the mask told him he was still alive. Barely. His skin was cold and slick with moisture, and growing mottled as he entered the more severe stages of shock. Carson’s chest jerked as his breath caught, the severity of John’s condition hitting him with desperate force.

 _Hang on, John,_ he thought, and would have said had his throat not felt like it was swelling shut. _Don’t die on me now, lad. Not after everything we’ve been through._ He closed his eyes, letting the corridors spin past him.

Abruptly, the gurney slowed, then more shouts erupted, sounding louder in the smaller space of the infirmary, and Carson’s attention snapped back into focus. The trauma team moved quickly, ordering tests and scans, and an OR room to be prepped. He was finally pulled off the gurney and pushed to the background, but he stayed close, riveted by the controlled chaos.

It was only once John’s gurney was moving again, rushing him to surgery, that Carson shook out his hands, numb from the pressure he’d exerted on John’s wound and coated with the man’s blood. He turned to see John’s team staring at the door leading to the surgery bays, now closed and looking ominous, in various levels of shock. Teyla was shaking, the red of John’s blood where it had smeared on her cheek a stark contrast against her paling skin.

He stepped forward and, without a word, pulled her into an embrace, vowing to stay on Atlantis until they either heard that John would survive and recover or that he….

He shook his head. _No, until John recovered._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Teyla had lost track of the time hours earlier. Someone—Ronon, she thought—had dragged her back to her room at some point and gotten her to clean up and change. Rodney had disappeared, only to return with trays full of food she did not want to eat. Carson hovered, alternating between sitting next to her or pacing the small waiting area outside of the surgical floor of the infirmary.

She was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. She rubbed at her shirt, the memory of John’s warm blood causing the fabric to cling to her skin still too fresh in her mind. She shivered and wrapped both arms around her body, then leaned back in the chair. Her mind drifted, latching onto the image of John bleeding out in the woods. He had grabbed onto her as soon as she’d dropped to the ground next to him, squeezing her hand with all of his strength against the pain of the gunshot wound. She tightened her hands into fist instinctively as her mind tried to recall the memory of John’s grip.

“Any news?”

Richard Woolsey’s voice startled her, and she jerked her head up. He looked nervous and a little awkward, his eyes flitting from one person to the next.

Carson cleared his throat next to her. “Nothing yet.”

“It’s been almost seven hours. Is that…does that mean…”

“It means he’s fighting,” Carson answered.

“No news is good news, I suppose,” Woolsey replied, the corners of his lips rising in an attempt at a small smile. When no one responded, he gave it up and waved at one of the empty chairs. “May I…wait with you?”

“We have no idea how long it will be before we hear anything,” Carson said.

Woolsey nodded, sitting down anyway. He cleared his throat, tugging on his shirt as he squirmed in his chair. “I know this may not be a good time, but could someone explain what happened? Do we need to send another team back to the planet—”

“No!” Teyla snapped, a flare of anger burning through her chest.

Woolsey blinked in surprised, but a second later, he nodded. “Very well.” He glanced around, searching their faces for an explanation. Teyla closed her eyes, relieved when Rodney finally answered him.

“There was an all out battle when we left,” he explained, for once sounding calm. Or maybe just tired. “The guy in charge of the area around the gate—the feudal lord—has a bunch of soldiers, all anxious to do more than just harass the local villagers. We ran into a group of them in this open air market type of place, prancing around and swinging theirs swords. One guy kept stabbing these large melon fruits, and it was clearly pissing the vendor off, but the man wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t even look the guy in the face.”

“And Colonel Sheppard intervened?”

“Not exactly,” Rodney huffed, his cheeks growing red. “I’m just saying this guy was an ass, showing off for his little posse of Shakespeare impersonators.”

“Shakespeare?” Carson asked.

“They were dressed in all these fancy clothes and hats with feathers, like the Three Musketeers or something,” he responded with an impatient wave. “We were there to make contact and possibly set up trade relations, so Sheppard approached our D’Artagnan wannabe. And then…”

“Then…”

“Sheppard pissed him off by saying hello,” Ronon broke in.

“I don’t understand,” Woolsey said, glancing between Ronon and Rodney.

Rodney sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Neither did we. Apparently, Sheppard made the mistake of looking him in the eye when he greeted him, which is against the law—if you can actually call that a law. Suddenly, the Shakespeare posse had muskets and swords pointed at us and the soldier-commander-leader guy was challenging Sheppard to a duel as the only way to restore honor to the situation, or some crap like that.”

“Ask me, he was just looking for a fight,” Ronon said, darkly.

“I agree,” Rodney sighed. “He was showing off for his friends and figured he could beat Sheppard easily. He didn’t really give him a choice either: swordfight or we all get shot. Sheppard fought.”

“And that was how he was injured,” Woolsey finished.

“No,” Teyla whispered, the events of the day replaying vividly in her mind. The soldier commander had been young and hot-headed, a man arrogant with power. Remembering him now, she was swamped by a feeling of foreboding, but she couldn’t remember if that feeling had hit her at the time. If it had, perhaps the outcome of the day might have been different. Perhaps they wouldn’t all now be sitting around and waiting to hear whether John lived or died.

Rodney was watching Teyla, but when she didn’t continue, he turned back to Woolsey. “He was actually doing pretty well with the whole swordfighting thing, and then the commander guy got pissed—”

“So he started making stupid mistakes, leaving himself open to attack,” Ronon interjected.

“Sheppard was winning,” Rodney continued. “The guy final lunged at him, which Sheppard dodged, and ended up face first in the dirt. One of his clowns didn’t like that, and just…started shooting. No warning.”

“I should have killed him,” Ronon muttered.

“So Colonel Sheppard was shot?” Woolsey asked, the frown of confusion deepening on his face.

“Yes,” Rodney answered, then shook his head. “No. I mean, yes—but not then. He was shot later. The market was swarmed by soldiers waving their little swords and shooting into the air, then these other guys showed up—”

“Other—”

Rodney waved Woolsey off with a wave. “Yes, other guys—villagers. Some resistance group trying to overthrow the feudal lord. We were separated, Sheppard was captured and thrown into the local prison. Yada yada yada—rescue, escape, run for the gate, attacked again, and then Sheppard was shot.”

“You were only gone for four hours.”

“We’re becoming quite adept at the whole capture, torture, rescue, escape scenario,” Rodney quipped, though there was no humor in his voice, and no hint of a smile. It was something John would say, and Teyla shuddered at the sound of his voice in her head.

“When this is all over—” Ronon started, fingering his blaster.

They were suddenly interrupted by the infirmary door opening, and one of the surgeons stepping into the room. Everyone jumped to their feet, but Teyla felt the room spin a little as she stood, and she grabbed onto Ronon’s arm to steady herself. The doctor’s face was a mask, not giving anything away.

“Doctor Vogle?” Carson prodded.

“Let’s sit,” he said, waving them back to their chairs.

Teyla’s grip on Ronon’s arm tightened and she felt him guiding her back to her chair. The seven-hour wait suddenly seemed like it hadn’t lasted long enough, and a part of her wanted to go back to that place of not knowing. What the doctor said in the next few minutes could not be taken back, and could change everything.

“The injury was bad,” Vogle started. “He’s still alive—he’s hanging on for the moment—but…”

“But?”

“But, Doctor McKay, it could go either way. He lost a lot of blood. The bullet passed between the 9th and 10th rib, knicking the transverse colon and hitting the edge of the spleen before lodging in the 8th rib in his back, cracking it. We were able to save part of the spleen and repair the damage to the colon, as well as remove the bullet.”

The room lapsed into silence. Teyla had only understood half of what the doctor had said, and her mind was racing. They had repaired the damage, is that what he had said? Why was John’s condition still so precarious? She was still holding onto Ronon’s arm, and she realized her fingers had grown numb. She forced herself to ease her grip, taking a shaky breath.

“The main concern now is infection,” Vogle continued. “His blood pressure is slowly climbing back up, and we’ve started him on antibiotics and immune boosters, but the likelihood of infection is very high. The trauma of the gunshot wound has weakened him considerably, and his ability to fight the infection compromised.”

“Now what?” Rodney asked, when the doctor paused again in his explanation.

“Now we wait. I’m sorry I can’t give you better news at this point, but I need you to understand how uncertain Colonel Sheppard’s situation is. There is still a very high probability that he will not survive.”

“I want to see him,” Teyla blurted. She blinked against the image of John lying in the forest and grabbing onto her hand, his blood soaking through her clothes. “Please.”

The doctor hesitated and glanced at Carson. Something passed between them, and had Teyla not felt so exhausted and on edge she might have understood their silent communication.

Finally, Vogle nodded. “One at a time, and only for a few minutes. You should prepare yourselves as well. We’ve got him hooked up to a lot of equipment right now, including a ventilator and—”

“Please,” Teyla repeated, interrupting him. “Let me see him.”

Doctor Vogle sighed, and stepped back, pushing the infirmary door open and waving her through. With a deep breath, Teyla stepped forward, bracing herself.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Carson padded quietly through the hallways of Atlantis, a mug of coffee hot in his hand. He’d woken early, jerked awake by a nightmare he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t exactly unusual—he woke up from forgotten nightmares so often now it was almost a regular part of his daily routine.

His first thought upon waking, though, was to wonder if John was still alive. Despite the early hour, after a very late night, he stumbled quickly out of bed, swinging by the mess hall for a cup of coffee before making his way to the infirmary. There were advantages to being a doctor, one of which was permission to sit in a patient’s room for as long as he wanted whenever he wanted, regardless of the visiting rules he had established so many years before when they’d first set up the ICU ward of the infirmary.

The main area of the infirmary was quiet and still dark as he entered. In a few hours, the day shift would come on and the place would be a bustle of activity, but the waning hours of the night shift—when all was calm and quiet—had always been his favorite, most productive time. He nodded in greeting to the night nurse, studying her face for a moment and looking for some sign of John’s condition in her demeanor.

 _This is stupid,_ he thought. _If something had happened, I would have been called._ Jennifer was with the Athosians for a few days with some of her medical staff, leaving the infirmary…not understaffed, but with less personnel than normal. Carson might have his own work offworld now, but he was still a good doctor and still considered part of the expedition, if perhaps in a more ambiguous way than before.

He was lost in thought as he walked into the ICU, so he didn’t see Teyla, partially hidden in shadows, until he was standing at the foot of John’s bed. He jumped, slapping a hand over his chest at the sudden, frenetic pace of his heart.

“For the love…” he started, then let his voice trail off. Teyla had not reacted to his presence at all.

He moved around the bed and brought the overhead lights up a little. Teyla was sprawled in a chair with her head on the edge of John’s mattress, one hand intertwined with his, the other resting against the top of his head. She was breathing deeply, and Carson carefully turned the light back down. She had looked beyond exhausted the night before, and while technically she wasn’t allowed in this part of the infirmary at this hour, he imagined the nursing staff had let her be, if only to give her a few hours of rest.

He grabbed the data pad sitting on the table next to the bed and pulled up John’s chart. The news was not good but not unexpected either. Besides a growing fever and rapid heartbeat, his kidney function was slowly but steadily declining and initial test results showed his electrolytes were all over the place and his white blood cell count was elevated.

He sighed, setting the chart aside. The musket bullet had damaged John’s spleen, so the chances of infection were high to begin with, but it had also nicked his large intestine, almost guaranteeing peritonitis. Very carefully, he pulled the sheet covering John’s chest down to his waist to examine his abdomen and incision, taking pains not to disrupt Teyla. He froze when she shifted slightly, but a second later, she settled down again and he returned to his exam. The skin around the incision was bruised, but even taking that into account, his stomach still looked swollen. He pressed his fingers into the muscles, frowning at the board-like rigidity.

Teyla moved again, this time raising her head with a gasp. Carson paused, waiting for her to get her bearings. She looked dazed, and she moved stiffly as she sat up. Dark circles ringed her eyes, giving her a ragged, haunted look.

“Teyla,” he said quietly.

She jumped in surprise, her head snapping up to his. Her hair was a mess, falling over her eyes. “Carson,” she breathed out.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it is…it is fine.” She pushed her hair back, attempting to flatten it into some kind of order. Her eyes fell back to John, and Carson followed her gaze, taking in the battered abdomen and the bandages and tubes covering skin washed of all color. For a moment, the only sound in the small room was the hiss and pump of the ventilator.

Carson pulled the sheet back up over John’s chest, then turned the light over the bed to full brightness. Sweat glistened against his pale skin—yet another sign of peritonitis. Teyla brushed John’s hair back, then looked up at the doctor.

“How is he?”

“Not good. Given his injuries, infection is almost unavoidable. Doctor Vogle is treating it as aggressively as he can, but…”

“He is warm,” Teyla whispered, resting a hand against John’s forehead.

“The infection is causing a fever.”

“He cannot breathe?”

Carson studied her. He knew the doctor had gone through all of this with them the night before, but he knew how overwhelming serious illness or injury could be to friends and loved ones.

“He can, but he’s very weak. The ventilator is just to give him some help, let him save what little strength he has to fight off the infection. After the trauma and blood loss of the initial injury, then surgery, and now infection…Teyla, I don’t know if…”

Teyla made a strangled sound, deep in her throat, and Carson let his voice trail off. He was torn, wanting to assure her but not wanting to build up false hope. Truth was, the odds were against John.

“Fight, John,” Teyla suddenly whispered. She buried her head against John’s, pressing her lips to his ear, and her voice was just barely audible to Carson. “Please, do not stop fighting. Do not leave us.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head. What could he say? His words would not magically bring John back from the edge of death, but anything less than that would give no comfort to anyone. He scanned the monitors surrounding John one last time, then retreated. One of the medical staff would eventually chase Teyla out and force her to get some rest, but for now, he would let her be and give her a few extra minutes with her team leader and friend.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Teyla was jerked, literally, out of her thoughts by a hand on her shoulder, spinning her around. She blinked, and it took a moment for her to realize that Ronon was standing in front of her, looking scared.

“What?” she whispered.

“Did something happen?” he asked, panicked.

“John?” She sucked in a breath, her mind reeling. She felt disconnected, numb, knowing she needed to focus but not quite managing to snap herself back to the present. The last time she’d seen John, his skin had been feverishly hot and the frantic pace of his heart had been setting off the monitor’s alarms. The medical staff had grown increasingly tense around her until they’d finally forced her out of the room.

“I just went to the infirmary, but they wouldn’t let me in.”

Fear suddenly swept through her. “Is he okay?”

Ronon closed his eyes, sighing, but before Teyla could ask him what was going on, he pulled her into a hug. “That’s what I was asking you.”

It felt good to lean against Ronon. He seemed a lot stronger and steadier than she felt. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Did you see him earlier?” he asked, loosening his hold on her.

They began walking down the corridor, Ronon’s arm across her shoulders guiding her forward. She realized she had no idea where in Atlantis she was at, or how she had gotten here.

Ronon had asked her something, and she tried to recall his words. It was about John. She had seen John. Was that what he had asked?

“Yes,” she answered tentatively. “He was still unconscious but the doctors say he is growing sicker. Ronon, I don’t know if he can…they don’t think—”

Ronon shook his head, cutting her off. “He’s strong.”

“He is not, not right now.”

“He’ll make it.”

She sighed. There was no arguing with him, and she didn’t want to anyway. She pressed a hand to her stomach, wondering when she had last eaten. It was odd to think that John had been brought into the infirmary four days earlier. Time had warped in her memory, the same monotonous minutes replaying over and over and over again. She had sat with John for hours, dozing next to him only to be jerked awake by nightmares of his death or by the staff doing one of their endless checks. She’d been prodded out of the ICU ward too many times to count, people begging her to eat and sleep, but her conversations with them were hazy now. She rubbed at her forehead, feeling a sudden blossoming pounding behind her eyes.

“Teyla?”

“It is just a headache,” she answered.

“McKay just called, wanted to know if we were going to eat dinner soon. Think he’s hungry.”

She was hungry, she thought, but the sound of eating did not appeal to her. She shook her head, deciding to return to the infirmary and wondering why she had left John’s side in the first place, but Ronon was already pulling her through the halls. He bustled her past the line of people waiting for food to a table at the far end where Rodney was already sitting with three trays of food in front of him. He stood as they approached, looking as pale as John and as tired as she felt.

“I got dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the trays. “I didn’t know what you guys wanted so I just got everything.”

Ronon clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over, then sat down and dug into one of the plates. Rodney smiled, trying and failing to look annoyed, then sat down and began eating his own meal. Teyla stared at her two teammates, then her own tray of food. The smell finally broke through the fog, and her stomach growled in response. She was ravenous.

They ate in silence, and the anxiety of the last few days lifted. She felt herself relax, a feeling of safety overcoming her by just being with Rodney and Ronon. She’d eaten her fill but was still picking at her food, loathe to break the moment, when a movement at the other end of the mess hall caught her attention. Carson. He scanned the crowds at the tables until he spotted them. He waved, jogging over.

And like that, the moment was gone. Rodney and Ronon grew still, watching the doctor run toward them, and Teyla felt cold fear slither back into place around her heart.

“Carson?” Rodney asked, clearing his throat when his voice broke.

Carson sat down next to Teyla, squeezing her arm gently. “We just got the latest test result back,” he said, almost breathless. “I think John has finally turned the corner.

“He’s getting better?” Ronon asked, a smile lighting up his eyes. He shot a look at Teyla and winked.

“He’s improving. The man is a fighter, there is no question of that. He’s still got a long road ahead of him, but I wanted to deliver the good news in person.”

Carson made a move to stand up, but Teyla reached over, enveloping him in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“It wasn’t me,” he whispered back. “It was all John.”

Hours later, Teyla sat in infirmary next to John’s bed, leaning her head against the mattress. The doctors had run more tests, confirming again that John was on the mend. Relief had flooded through her, washing away everything but an overwhelming exhaustion.

A slight tug on her fingers drew her out of a restless doze, and she sat up stiffly, rubbing her back and trying to remember when she’d fallen asleep. Rodney and Ronon were gone, and a thin blanket was draped over her shoulders. She glanced around the dimly lit infirmary, searching for whatever had woken her up, when she felt John’s fingers tighten briefly on her hand.

She glanced down, her breath catching at the sliver of hazel staring back at her. He was still weak, still being aided by the ventilator. She brushed his hair back, smiling when his eyes opened a little more.

“Sleep, John. You’re going to be fine,” she whispered. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she realized she finally believed it. He would be fine. In a few weeks, he would be his old self—laughing, talking, eating, sleeping—and the past few days clinging to the edge of life would be little more than a shadowy memory for all of them.

John squeezed her fingers again and gave her a slight nod. Moments later, his eyes slid closed and he drifted back to sleep. Teyla leaned forward, brushing her lips against his forehead, and then sat back in the chair. She hunkered down, grabbing onto his hand and letting herself sink into much-needed sleep.

END


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